Estimated reading time: 5 minutes
What This Quote Is Really About
You probably know the quiet ache of wanting something new: a better phone, a bigger place, that one thing in the shop window you keep walking past. Desire hums in the background of your day like the low buzz of a fridge in the next room. You tell yourself that once you finally get it, something inside you will settle.
"The best things in life aren’t things."
When you hear "the best things in life," your mind might jump to a sort of mental trophy shelf. You picture what most people mean when they say they are doing well: the car, the house, the vacations, the balance in the bank account. On the surface, this part of the quote sounds like a simple ranking, as if life is a contest and you are trying to figure out what deserves first place.
But underneath, it quietly asks you a harder question: when you look back at your life, what moments make your chest go soft and your eyes sting a little? The ones where you laughed so hard you forgot the time? The afternoon you sat on a park bench with someone you love, feeling the late sun fading from warm gold to a faint, cool gray on your skin? The best parts are usually experiences, connections, and inner shifts that can’t be put on a shelf or listed on a resume, no matter how much the world tries to convince you otherwise.
Then comes the turn: "aren’t things." This is where the saying gently pushes against the usual script you are handed. On the surface, it is almost blunt: objects do not qualify. Stuff, as such, does not win. Your favorite shoes, the shiny laptop, that limited edition whatever-it-is — none of them count as "the best" under this rule.
Deeper down, this part is asking you to separate what you hold from what holds you. It suggests that the deepest joys have no price tag: a conversation that heals an old wound, the feeling of being really seen by someone, the sense of being proud of who you are becoming. Those are hard to own in the way you own a product; they live in you, not in your closet.
Think of a simple day: you are sitting on your couch with a friend. The room is a bit messy. The couch has a tear in the side. You are sharing stories you have both told before, but for some reason they land differently tonight. You laugh, you get quiet, you admit something you were afraid to say. When they leave and you close the door, you realize that, for a couple of hours, you forgot to hate your life. That moment is what this quote is pointing at. The couch mattered just enough to hold you, but it wasn’t the point.
There is a part of me that thinks these words are almost annoyingly correct. Because if the best things aren’t things, then you can’t just buy your way into a meaningful life; you have to do the slower work of loving, listening, risking, forgiving. That is less convenient than clicking "add to cart."
And still, there is a little nuance to admit: sometimes a thing is tied so closely to a memory or relationship that it feels sacred — a worn-out book from someone you miss, a mug you always used with a partner, a faded ticket from a concert that changed you. Strictly speaking, these are "things," but what makes them precious is not their material. It is the life they point back to. Even here, the quote mostly holds: the best part is never the object; it is the story beating inside it.
The Time and Place Behind the Quote
Art Buchwald wrote and spoke during a century when consumer culture was exploding, especially in the United States. Born in 1925 and active through the second half of the 20th century, he watched advertising rise, shopping malls spread, and television pour an endless stream of "must-have" items into people’s living rooms. More and more, success was measured by what someone owned rather than who they were.
In that setting, these words made a certain kind of gentle protest. "The best things in life aren’t things" pushes back against the idea that a good life can be summed up by possessions. People were buying cars, appliances, gadgets, new fashions, and being told that each one would make them happier or more complete. Buchwald, whose work often mixed humor with clear-eyed observations, saw how fragile that promise really was.
Emotionally, his era carried a strange mix of optimism and anxiety. There was postwar prosperity, but also the Cold War, social upheaval, and a growing sense that something essential might be getting lost in the rush. In that climate, a reminder that love, friendship, humor, and simple human warmth matter more than stuff would have landed both as a comfort and as a quiet challenge.
The saying has been repeated so widely that it is sometimes treated like a slogan, but at its heart it came from a time when people were starting to wonder whether "more" was really better — and whether they were trading something irreplaceable for things that would eventually break, fade, or go out of style.
About Art Buchwald
Art Buchwald, who was born in 1925 and died in 2007, was an American humorist and columnist whose sharp, funny writing appeared in newspapers for decades and made him one of the most widely read commentators of his time. He began by reporting and joking about political and social life, first as a correspondent in Paris and later in Washington, D.C., where he became known for skewering powerful figures with a light, playful touch rather than cruelty.
He wrote in a period when television, advertising, and consumer culture were reshaping how people thought about happiness. Surrounded by political spin and commercial promises, Buchwald used humor to say serious things in a way that felt friendly and accessible. He often pointed out how absurd it was to chase status, power, or possessions as if they could fill every empty space inside a person.
This background helps explain the spirit behind "The best things in life aren’t things." Buchwald saw, up close, how quickly trends passed and fortunes changed, and how hollow public image could feel. His work often circled back to the value of ordinary joys: family, friendship, shared laughter, and the human ability to keep going even when life is complicated.
Remembering Buchwald this way makes the quote feel less like a greeting-card slogan and more like a seasoned observation from someone who watched a lot of people spend their lives chasing what ultimately does not matter as much as they hoped.
